“I found a book in the markets, while you were away,” Boromir replied, moving closer and causing another shift of water, another splash as yet more escaped the tub, “and I want to try a few things I read in it.”

“One of those books, was it?”

“No.” His defensive reply was mitigated by the guilty pause. “Well… yes. But! That’s not what I want to try.”

Rhosynel breathed a laugh, inclined to keep teasing him. She would have, if it wasn’t for the fact Boromir’s warm broad hands settled against her shoulders. Blinking in confusion, she found herself wondering just what he’d been reading.

The pressure of his fingers gently dug into her shoulders, and any queries she had abruptly became unimportant.

“Oh.”

Her sigh of pleasure earned a low hum from Boromir, as his fingers carefully kneaded at her shoulders. For a brief moment, her body tensed against the unfamiliar feeling, but just as quickly, any and all worries were brushed away.

That felt so good.

Boromir was strong, she knew that, she’d had first-hand experience of how easily he could lift her up to carry, how quickly he could pin her when they sparred, especially on how he could effortlessly manhandle her in bed. But this? This was something else entirely.

His fingertips dug into the muscles between neck and shoulder, a scent of some warm oil meant his hands glided across her water slicked skin, smoothed over her shoulder blades, before circling back up to knead at her shoulders once again. Another circuit, and Rhosynel found her back arching, pressing against his palms in a request she didn’t know she had.

It seemed Boromir understood, as he increased the pressure of his touch.

The groan that left Rhosynel’s throat was louder than she’d expected.

For half a second, Boromir froze.

And then renewed his efforts, with vigour.

“Feels good, I take it?” he murmured, voice a low rumble to echo the distant thunderstorm, “enjoying yourself?”

“Pl-ease, don’t stop.”

He didn’t, thank Béma. Boromir’s thumbs pressed to the back of her neck, rubbing in soothing circles, quickly banishing any aches or pains or lingering tensions Rhosynel didn’t know she had. Back to the shoulders, rubbing firmly between her shoulder blades, and her arms shifted, granting more access to the tense muscles beneath them.

There was a pleasant warmth from the oils he was soothing across her skin, an almost spicy scent. Was that… cinnamon? The spice was expensive, imported from Harad and beyond, where had he gotten it? How much had he spent on a vial of oil that was just to be rubbed into her skin?

The worries of cost quickly became unimportant, as his fingers dragged down her spine.

Entirely without meaning, Rhosynel’s back arched with a sigh.

The cost didn’t matter. She’d buy ten, twenty, hells, a hundred vials of the oil, but only if Boromir promised to do this with each and every of them.

The bath water was warm, the oils were suffusing into her skin, and the heat of Boromir’s palms glided across her back and shoulders with a comforting familiarity. Another drag across her spine, his hands sinking beneath the waters to knead at the muscles across her ribs, slowly roaming lower to her waist. Her spine bowed, pressing into his hands, subtly moving to where she needed his fingers to dig into most.

Again and again Boromir stroked, kneaded, pressed and smoothed, allowing her to dictate where she needed touching, what aches she needed banishing. Rhosynel didn’t need to speak, didn’t need to explain, Boromir listened to the breathy sounds leaving her lips, and did as silently bidden.

His thumbs pressed against her lower back, rubbing in circles, teasing out the knots of stress and tension that had built up over Béma knew how many years. His fingers wrapped about her waist as he pressed his thumbs harder.

There was a subtle shift in Rhosynel’s body.

The pleasure of being so warm, relaxed, and comfortable, took on a slightly different pleasure. One that had her blood warming for an entirely different reason.

Inhaling deeply, the heady spice of cinnamon mingled with the relaxing scent of lavender, and the familiar fragrance of patchouli, flooded her lungs. Rhosynel’s hips shifted, pressing backwards in a bid to find the heat of Boromir’s body.

Mistaking her request for him as a request for more, Boromir dug his fingers into her flesh.

Rhosynel moaned.

The grip on her waist tightened, a sharp inhale at her back.

“Do—” His voice was rough, having to clear his throat to continue. “—Do you want me to stop?”

 “No.” She whined. “Yes.” She panted. “I—I don’t, I don’t know. I want—”